THE SUBJECT OF MALICE
Page 21
“Oh no. Why?” I struggled to catch my breath as the implications crowded in. Goodbye, book. Which meant goodbye, tenure. Which meant I’d need to find a new job. Which meant I’d need to move somewhere else. Which meant I’d be leaving everyone I loved here. I pushed that anxiety spiral away from me with a concerted effort and tried to concentrate on her words.
“The university, frankly, is horrified by the negative publicity that has been generated by the conference, from which we were meant to come home victorious, having launched the new critical guide series and new award to national applause. Instead, we lost Ellis and Flynn, Richmond is hurt, Candace is going to be locked up, and let’s not forget Flynn’s keynote speech discrediting the series, which went viral. They’re not saying it outright—we were given a byzantine tale about sudden but necessary redistribution of funding, but long story short: it’s over.”
I was spinning. From the highest peak to the lowest point in the valley in seconds flat.
“I’m very sorry,” I managed to say.
“No. Lila, I am. And I’m horrified to have to deliver this news, especially this late in the process. But I hope you know that your work is extremely good. You’ll be able to find a new home for it, I’m sure.”
“You will,” said Nate firmly.
“No question.” Calista added.
Lex nodded in agreement.
“I genuinely wish you the best.” Meredith apologized again. “Forgive me?”
“Of course. Nothing to forgive.”
“These things happen, though I’m heartbroken that it’s happening to you. Keep in touch, okay?” She gave me an awkward hug and walked away.
The thought of having to find another publisher hit me hard, and my eyes welled up. I wiped a tear away quickly, but the woman passing me with her tray saw it anyway.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Bibi Callahan set the tray on the table next to me and bent down to peer into my face.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Well, clearly you are not fine,” she said. “Does this have something to do with the way you dove onto that wild woman last night and prevented a catastrophe?”
I laughed. “Not really, but thank you for that description.”
“I mean it. You’re my hero.”
I waved at an empty chair. “Would you like to join us?”
“I would, but just briefly. I need to get going soon. My friend Pat’s driving, and she’s a stickler for being on time.”
“Now,” she said, once she was settled and I’d made introductions again. “What’s all this about?”
“I found out that my publisher is closing.”
“Oh, you can’t publish your book with them? I was so looking forward to reading it. That’s too bad, dear.” Her green eyes shone with sympathy. As a retired professor, the meaning of the situation was not lost on her. “Have you sent it out to other publishers?”
“I have. Since Isabella only wrote three novels and they were in limited distribution, they haven’t heard about her enough to know how fantastic she is. Which is ironic, because once people know about her, they’ll love her.” I began musing aloud—I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Maybe I need to find a way to offer them more, see if I can find some letters she wrote or something. I have a sabbatical coming up next fall. I’ll just have to look harder.” I stopped. The whole idea made me dizzy.
“Your school offers a sabbatical before you apply for tenure?”
“Just one semester. They want us to have time to research.”
“What a lovely idea. Many don’t, until afterwards.”
“We feel very fortunate.”
“I should expect so. Are you going somewhere?”
“I was going to stay with my mother in New York, but...”
She nodded. “Your mother?”
“Yes, she’s an artist. Violet O.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, I adore her work. She’s your mother? What a small world. We’re friends. Well, not exactly friends. Friendly, perhaps.”
That didn’t surprise me. My mother knew everyone. “You are? Where did you meet?”
“I compared her work to that of several postmodern poets in a paper at a conference back east. She was attending the conference, happened to hear about it from members of the audience, and invited me for a drink. We had a terrific talk and have kept in touch on social media since then.”
“I love that. Anyway, she’s hosting an art-in, so there’s no place for me.”
“An art-in?”
“Where she and a small group of her friends lock themselves away from the world for several months and create art and hold workshops and have power circles and all sorts of re-energizing things. They rotate locations every couple of years, and it’s her turn to host. They’d made the plans long before I knew I’d be taking a sabbatical.”
“I see. That sounds marvelous, to be honest. I do miss the east coast. But I have a different idea. Use my guest cottage. You’re welcome to it any time you like. It’s very quiet. Superb for reading and writing.”
I stared at her.
“Obviously, you could come and go as you please. It’s not too far from Stonedale, but it would allow you real space to focus on your work. Believe me, I’ve learned from experience that if you’re on sabbatical but hover near campus, people have a way of finding you. That will interrupt your concentration and impede your progress.”
“What a nice offer! But I couldn’t afford to—”
She laughed softly at that. “You wouldn’t have to pay me anything at all. I’d be glad for the company. Though I wouldn’t be pestering you all day, promise. I’m working on my own book.” She cocked her head slightly. “If you needed a break, however, perhaps you could help me go through some files, if you have a mind to do so. My study is a mess, and I’ve been meaning to organize it for years.”
I hesitated. Was I really thinking about entering an arrangement with a professor I’d met for two seconds at a conference? Still, there was something honest and forthright about her. I was drawn to her kindness. And I could always check in with my mother beforehand, who apparently knew her.
“I’d be happy to help you organize your study,” I said.
“You might find something useful in my papers. I taught American Literature too. And I have an extensive library of mysteries. That’s an affinity I believe we both share, judging from your presentation.” Her eyes twinkled.
“How exciting! Thank you for your generosity.”
“It’s settled, then.” She clapped her hands. “We’ll have a wonderful time.”
I smiled at her. “Looking forward to it.”
She paused. “Having attended your panel, I suppose I should clarify one thing, so that we have no secrets between us.” Bibi leaned forward. “My married name is Bibi Callahan, but my maiden name is Isabella Dare.”
About the Author
Cynthia Kuhn is an English professor and author of the Lila Maclean Academic Mysteries: The Semester of Our Discontent, The Art of Vanishing, The Spirit in Question, and The Subject of Malice. Her work has also appeared in McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, Literary Mama, Copper Nickel, Prick of the Spindle, Mama PhD, and other publications. Honors include an Agatha Award (Best First Novel), William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant, and Lefty Award nominations (Best Humorous Mystery). Originally from upstate New York, she lives in Colorado with her family. For more information, please visit cynthiakuhn.net.
The Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Series
by Cynthia Kuhn
THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT (#1)
THE ART OF VANISHING (#2)
THE SPIRIT IN QUESTION (#3)
THE SUBJECT OF MALICE (#4)
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